


August AU's

by Sarai



Category: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo, The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: AU_gust 2020, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Bargains, F/M, Gen, I took "angels and demons" very loosely, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25672417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarai/pseuds/Sarai
Summary: A collection of my August AU fics!Day 1 - Fantasy: An unwilling queen makes an unlikely ally. [Six of Crows]Day 2 - College: It's move-in day at Ketterdam University and Kaz is already making enemies. [Six of Crows]Day 3 - Soulmates: Soulmarks require a lot of trust for Jesper and Wylan. [Six of Crows]Day 4 - Angels & Demons: Inej, Jesper, and Wylan go to a costume party. [Six of Crows]Day 5 - Post-Apocalypse: Just when Nile thinks nothing can surprise her anymore, zombies. [The Old Guard]Day 6 - Hospital: Jesper survived the appendectomy easily. The boredom of recovery may be another story! [Six of Crows]Day 8 - Superpowers: Some otkazat'sya survive parem, and Jan Van Eck has a test subject in mind. [Six of Crows]Day 11 - Ranch: A therapeutic ranch isn't going to help, but for Inej, Kaz will try. Just to prove her wrong. [Six of Crows]Day 15 - Role Reversal: Kaz sends Wylan to recruit Jesper. [Six of Crows]Day 19 - Bodyguard: Matthias did his duty. He still regrets his actions. [Six of Crows]
Relationships: Jesper Fahey/Wylan Van Eck, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Kaz Brekker/Inej Ghafa
Comments: 16
Kudos: 81
Collections: AUgust 2020





	1. Fantasy AU: Spinning Straw [Six of Crows]

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks for clicking on my fic! I hope you'll enjoy it, but wanted to be upfront about a few things. These are not polished works; most are brief vignettes. Each one will be an AU, ranging from a single change in canon to an entirely different world. I'll add tags as I go; some tags will only apply to one fic. 
> 
> I've had a lot of fun writing these and hope you'll have as much fun reading them!

“Now,” said the king as he stood in the doorway, his hand tight on his new bride’s upper arm as they peered into the chamber filled with straw, “you will do as your auntie has promised.”

“Wait…” The word was a quiver in her mouth. 

He hurled her into the room.

“Or else,” he said. He shut the door, his implied threat echoing in her mind with the sound of the bolt shoved into place. 

Her usually trustworthy feet had failed her. Even after the king’s footsteps faded from the corridor, she stayed on her hands and knees, sobs shaking through her body. Her hair should have fallen over her face, but they had shorn off most of it. This shouldn’t have mattered now, the king would have her head, but she missed her beautiful, thick hair. She watched tears hit pieces of straw, some dampening the gray stone.

“She’s not my auntie,” the girl whispered hoarsely. 

She swallowed.

“She’s not my auntie.”

But there was no one to hear it. And no one to care.She didn’t know how long she stayed on the floor, shaking and sobbing, hacking out her fear until there was nothing left inside her. When she had drained herself of every drop of hurt, she picked her shivering body up. She knocked pieces of straw from her palms. They left stinging welts.

The chamber was lit by flickering torchlight and, from arrow-slit windows, moonlight. Aside from the piles of straw, there was a pallet and blanket in the corner, a bowl and pitcher, and a tray. There was a spinning wheel, too. Of course there was a spinning wheel. 

She drank from the pitcher and examined the tray. Well, they didn’t mean to starve her. She devoured the soft bread and drank more. Then she examined the door, but it was locked fast. Maybe she could wear down the hinges. After that—she wasn’t certain. She had never been in a castle until today.

Today, she was brought to this castle, sold to the king, washed and dressed and painted by strangers. Now she poured water into the bowl and splashed it on her faced. She scrubbed with her hands, then a corner of the fine gown they had put on her. That stupid dress! She tugged at it, twisted, fabric tore and finally the gown came off. The relatively simple shift was still finer than anything she had ever worn before, but she felt more herself in it than she had in the noblewoman’s gown. 

She was no noblewoman.

She was the daughter of tumblers and there wasn’t a drop of shame in that.

She kicked off the beaded slippers they had slid onto her feet and went to examine the hinges again. Her nails bit at the rust, digging away tiny chips. If only she had a lever or a file or… or… she didn’t know. Something!

So busy was the newlywed queen that she didn’t notice a shadow darker than the others slipping in along the edge of those arrow-slit windows. She did not notice it rippling from the stone. She did not notice until the shadow spoke.

“Poor accommodations,” it said in a voice that had carried the rough from the stone.

She jumped and spun. There stood a man, or something that looked like a man. He had dark hair, pale skin, and eyes that swirled like dark pits. His clothing looked new, his shirt crisp and unmarred white, doublet and breeches in quiet black. A look of distaste curling his lip, he brushed invisible dirt from his cloak. Though he didn’t wear the bright colors of the nobility, keeping adornments to the silver and gold threads at his hems, there was something of wealth and status to him. He might have been a man of the church, but she doubted it. He hadn’t the look.

“Who are you?” she asked. How did he get in? Could he get her out?

Even as he answered, she knew she had asked the wrong question. Not who. What.

“You may call me Kaz.”

“My name is Inej.”

“Indeed.” He looked her up and down, then said, “You called for me.”

“I did not.” Called for him? She didn’t even know him!

“I am not called aloud.”

What?

He looked around, plucked a piece of straw from one of the piles.

“These truly are shoddy accommodations for such a queen. What is your task?”

“To spin straw into gold,” Inej said. The enormity of her situation once more hit her. She was to spin this room’s worth of straw into gold. All of it in a single night! Not only could Inej not spin a single straw into gold, she couldn’t use a spinning wheel. She only knew a drop spindle.

She took a breath.

“I cannot spin straw, please, however you came—”

“My ways of travel are not suited to humans,” said Kaz.

Inej felt her heart dip.

“Yet I can help you,” he continued. “Have you anything to trade? We can perhaps make a deal.”


	2. College AU: Ketterdam University [Six of Crows]

Kaz settled easily enough into his dormitory at Ketterdam University. He didn’t think of himself as particularly needy of material things, but nor did he see reason to deny himself. Why should he? It had been his sharp mind and quick hands that earned his crisp sheets, fine boots, that expensive sandalwood cologne he dabbed on his wrists when the mood took him.

The dorm itself was fine. This business of a “house mother” he liked less, but then, she could certainly try. He wasn’t one for rules.

Kaz left his bedroom to examine the common room he shared with three other boys. Two of them were on their way through, dressed in matching and ridiculous clothing that meant they were off to some toffs’ game.

“Oh, it’s the last boy,” one of them said. And Kaz immediately distrusted him, despite his apparently friendly, “I’m Bert and this is de Koning.”

The second boy was worse: “As in _the_ de Konings,” he said, raising his chin half an inch.

Kaz knew exactly who _the_ de Konings were, but he didn’t like this boy, so he affected the ignorance his sort presumed of peasant stock and said, “Ah, yes, the wheat merchants.”

“Those are the Drydens,” said de Koning. He had blue eyes that seemed to intentionally not settle on Kaz, like he wasn’t even worth seeing.

“Of course, my mistake,” Kaz said. He was not sorry. He was also well aware that the Drydens were less wealthy than the de Konings. “I remember, the de Koning family made their fortune in shipping—spices from Eames Chin, wasn’t it?”

Because implying his family was poorer than it was had been one thing. Now Kaz was making de Koning admit, if only to himself, who was far wealthier. And de Koning knew it. He turned a beautiful shade of red.

Kaz could see the year playing out. He knew de Koning’s type. He would never forget the sting of Kaz putting him in his place, he would never forgive it, and so would endeavor to make Kaz’s life miserable with a new jab every time they were in the same room. As Kaz gave precisely zero damns what this fool thought, the technique would be ineffective, but hilarious.

But it wasn’t de Koning who spoke next.

In fact, no one spoke. They were interrupted by a loud laugh.

“Aw, come on. He’s messing around and you know it. Don’t be sore just because you let him get to you.”

“We should go,” Bert said. “We’re already late. It was nice to meet you.” The politeness was empty and perfunctory, but Kaz didn’t mind. He didn’t actually care much what these two thought of them.

Once they were gone, he got a good look at the fourth boy. He was tall and lanky. His shirt and trousers were worn at the hems and elbows—he didn’t come from money. Like Kaz. The boy had a wide, easy smile and sparkles in his eyes like he thought entirely too well of the world.

“Jesper Fahey,” he said, offering his hand.

Kaz accepted the handshake, but before he could offer his name the door from the hallway opened.

“Tell me you’re not starting fights already,” said a man with dark hair, dark eyes, and entirely too solemn an opinion of himself.

Kaz sighed. “Way to help me make friends, you podge. Anyway, I’m Kaz Rietveld, and this is my brother Jordie. Jordie, this is Jesper.”

“Jordan,” corrected Jordie. “Kaz, don’t talk that way.”

“Good to meet you both,” said Jesper with a grin that suggested he would like just Kaz's kind of fun.

* * *

Kaz loved Jordie, but he knew his brother’s weaknesses. (They were many.) It had been Kaz’s skill with the cards that got them out of cheap flophouses. He had earned enough scrub and built enough connections to get his brother a proper job. Jordie never did strike it rich at the Exchange, but he earned enough to live a comfortable life and begin courting a moderate sort of woman.

But once Kaz became their financial backbone, he no longer saw cause to listen to his big brother. Jordie told him time and again to stop playing, but why would Kaz stop when he was good enough at winning to get himself banned from three gambling halls on East Stave?

He wasn’t going to abandon his hobby, his skill, just because Jordie said so or just because a university student ought to comport himself better (according to Jordie). So two weeks into the semester, Kaz dressed for a casual evening.

“Do you want to come with me?” he asked.

“Where?” Jesper countered.

“Down to the Barrel. You know the rules to Three Man Bramble, don’t you?”


	3. Soulmate AU: Close Your Eyes [Six of Crows]

“I really hope we don’t die.” 

Even as he said it, Jesper’s grin shifted, his gaze sharpening from post-kiss giddiness into something deeper.

Wylan understood. He was sure he looked the same. Splotches of bright color bloomed from Jesper’s lips where Wylan’s mouth had touched his, with matching colors where Wylan had caressed Jesper’s cheek.

“What color is it?” he asked.

“Purple and blue. Mine?”

“Blue and green.”

“Saints, Wy, I’ve never seen a purple so beautiful.”

That was just what Wylan had been thinking about the green he saw on Jesper’s face, the color of healthy, damp grass spreading like a painting, like a bruise where skin sang instead of falling. Like the universe had opened up just to daub this bright, wonderful patch like a promise where they had touched.

He had always hoped to see soul-colors. They were rumored to be beautiful. Ethereal. Indescribable. Wylan had struggled to recreate them in his art, but those who knew their soulmates said the attempts were valiant but missing something vital. The only way to see them was to find one’s soulmate. The colors weren’t visible to outsiders. Wylan had heard it was something of a rite of passage among younger teenagers, going through a period of questioning whether or not the colors existed. Some adults claimed soul-colors were a myth. 

He knew now that they were real—and that he and Jesper were soulmates. The marks were right there on their faces, growing out of their kiss.

Jesper took Wylan’s hand, laced their fingers together and gave a squeeze. It sent bolts of lightning from Wylan’s heart. Threads of color grew from their linked fingers, blue and green and purple. Wylan held tight to his soulmate. 

_I love you._

He didn’t say it, but he noticed the the colors shifting on his hand.

Jesper laughed. Wylan didn’t know how Jesper could say so much with a laugh. He had his broad, inclusive laugh that swept you up like a giddy hug. He had that sort of laugh that could only be directed at another person. He had a chuckle that made Wylan blush.

This laugh was the third kind.

“Same red as your face,” he teased, which only made Wylan blush hotter.

“Oh, hush,” he objected. But he didn’t let go.

* * *

After the events in the Church of Barter, after the university medik had taken away what he could of Wylan’s physical pain, Wylan shut himself in the washroom and unbuttoned his shirt.

Only days had passed since he first saw his skin blooming in the bright colors Jesper swept into his life, but there were other marks. Wylan couldn’t recall when his had first appeared. Everyone had one, visible always to the owner of that mark and, once found, to their soulmate.

It started like a bruise over the heart. Everyone had a little bit of shame, a little anger toward themselves and hurt toward the world. It was normal. Though Wylan had asked, his father never said how big the bruise over his own heart was.

When he saw it in the mirror, Wylan clenched his jaw. He had expected it would have diminished. He had met his soulmate. Just the thought of Jesper made everything so much better—the bruises should have gone. Instead it was as broad and ugly as ever. He had hoped, when Nina Tailored him, that she would take the mark away, but even Tailoring couldn’t hide this.

Wylan swallowed back tears. Somehow he thought this would fix him. He thought being in love would make him whole.

No—it would be okay. It had to be. Everything was still so new with Jesper; Wylan just needed more time. The bruises would fade.

* * *

Weeks had passed.

Jesper was used to the Van Eck mansion now—although Jesper had settled in with little trouble that first night. Wylan hadn’t been the least bit surprised. Jesper’s confidence made him fit right in anywhere.

As for Wylan, though he struggled to find his footing and make sense of all his father’s businesses, he was making progress. The bruises from the beating Anika and Pim gave him had faded. They didn’t hold back—but that was the way of things in the Barrel.

Not that any of it mattered right now.

Right now, Jesper and Wylan had the house to themselves. Everyone else was asleep. It was late, but neither was tired. How could Wylan possibly be tired with Jesper kissing him like this? Wylan wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. They burned where he touched Jesper, and, Ghezen, he wanted that burn, wanted Jesper to keep kissing him…

Jesper moved to kiss Wylan’s neck, starting to unbutton his shirt—

“Wait.”

Wylan moved back.

Jesper paused. “Wylan… we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, but I thought you wanted this.”

He looked beautiful. For weeks, Wylan hadn’t seen himself or Jesper without bright soul-colors splashed across their skin. Wylan loved those colors. He loved Jesper. He loved what they had together.

But…

“I thought it would’ve stopped by now,” he explained.

“I have one, too,” Jesper pointed out.

Sure he did. Everyone did. 

They had talked about it before, and Wylan knew it wasn’t about physical things. They had discussed that, too. Jesper knew Wylan wanted that but didn’t feel ready, and he respected it; each knew what the other felt ready for. What Jesper wanted, and he had been clear about this, was to see the bruises. The longer Wylan refused to even talk about it, the more it felt not so much private as withheld.

Wylan shook his head. He didn’t know what had come over him tonight, but he said, “You can do it.”

“Are you sure?” Jesper asked.

“No,” Wylan admitted. He glanced down at his shirt. At his bruise. “This might be a terrible idea. But… do it.”

Jesper hesitated. Then, slowly, he began to unbutton Wylan’s shirt.

“Saints. Oh, Saints. Wylan.”

Wylan pushed off his shirt. Then he unbuttoned Jesper’s to reveal, over his heart, a knot of colors from sickly yellow to harsh reds. He had seen yellow and red on Jesper’s skin, left from touches and kisses, bright colors like flowers, like duckling fluff and strawberries. These were not those colors.

Wylan touched the sickly marks. He laid his palm over the center, feeling Jesper’s heart beating and watching the bruises, still visible around Wylan’s hand.

“You should love yourself more,” he said.

“Look who’s talking,” Jesper retorted.

The bruises covered Wylan’s chest and belly. He was damaged and ugly and had to resist the urge to cover himself. Wylan had deemed himself worthless a long time ago. Now, with his soulmate before him, he felt keenly aware that he hadn’t kept himself well for Jesper. He should’ve…

“Wylan, close your eyes.”

“It won’t go away.”

“Just close them.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to kiss you.”

Wylan closed his eyes.


	4. Angels & Demons AU: Costume Party [Six of Crows]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in the same AU as my fic [A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Republican National Convention](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22018546) and might not make much sense without it. I had an interesting time with the prompt and once I got the idea, I was stuck on it!

Inej hadn't been sure about the party. She hadn't been sure about much of anything since accepting the internship. For the first time, she lived away from her family, and the independence she had longed for left her lonely. She was the youngest person by about a decade at the lab and her brown skin made her stand out in the town.

So when David Kostyk invited her to a party, she had been conflicted. He was an awkward man and largely kept to himself. Though he had never given her reason to doubt him, still the offer set off alarm bells in her head.

At least until David added, "My son's about your age. His friends are having an 'angels and demons' party and if you're interested I'll ask him what that means."

It turned out that it was a costume party.

Not wanting to stand out too much, Inej hadn't gone overboard on her costume. She wore a flowy white blouse over her jeans. That was angelic... ish.

David's wife, Genya, had been welcoming, dispelling the last of Inej's concerns, and their son, Wylan, was polite even if he did turn the conversation immediately to chemistry. Well, you could take the girl out of the lab...

"Are you sure you don't want a halo?" Genya asked. "I can braid your hair for you."

"It's easier to just agree," offered Wylan.

Inej smiled and held up her hands in mock surrender. "If you're sure you don't mind."

Genya's hands were surprisingly gentle as she brushed Inej's hair and began weaving it into a tight braid. It was just the two of them in the kitchen now, and Inej remembered her mother's hands in her hair... of course she could braid her own hair, too, but there was something soothing in that touch.

"There," she announced. "Go have a look in the mirror, let's see if you like it."

As Inej dipped into the bathroom to examine her braid, she heard Genya knocking on what she assumed must be Wylan's door.

Inej loved her braid. Woven around the crown of her head, it glowed with golden ribbons. She still wasn't some treetop cherub, but if she said so herself, she looked angelic.

Wylan, meanwhile, was fretting. The idea had been solid. The problem was that when he formed it, he was thinking of himself as a painting—and painting up a human face was nothing like painting canvas. Now as he stared into the mirror, he wondered if he’d made a mistake. He was already worried about how David and Genya would react, but he had assumed he was taking that risk for something good. Something _cool_.

He shook his head. It was the best he could do. Besides, with Genya knocking at his door, did he have a lot of choices? So Wylan swallowed and went to face the music.

Genya looked him over and grinned. “You look so cute!”

He had wanted to look sexy, but couldn’t bring himself to wear super-tight jeans where Genya might see, so he would settle for cute. He still thought there was something wicked in the flare of his jacket, and he had drawn a small snake at his temple. There was a red-white-and-blue elephant sticker on his chest. The heart of the piece was the horns, though. Curled and pointed, they took his costume from ‘edgy’ to ‘demonic’. His hair had grown out enough to cover the headband, so it almost looked like the horns grew right out of his head!

“But,” she continued, “the makeup… if you wanted eye makeup, you should’ve asked. Come on. Let’s see what we can do about this.”

He had been prepared for her to be angry, but was outright baffled that rather than raising her voice, she took him into the bathroom, took out her own makeup bag, and got to work.

“I don’t usually wear anything this heavy,” Genya said as Wylan kept his eyes carefully closed. The last thing he wanted was to get gel liner in his eye. (Also, who knew? Gel liner was a thing!) “But… with a little foundation… there! Have a look.”

Wylan did—and it was a million times better. Whatever he thought he was doing with a tube of mascara, he wasn’t. But Genya had done it with her brushes and gels.

“I love it!”

“Thought you might.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

He still wasn’t entirely comfortable calling her that. He liked it, but they needed time. Sometimes he couldn’t help remembering that his bio mom was out there somewhere… that maybe she wouldn’t like him this way. Maybe having a deviant for a son…

“Wylan? What’s on your mind, kid?”

He shook his head. “Just grateful for you.”

She squeezed his shoulders in a half-hug, and he would have given up the entire party to stay here next to her.

“Hey!”

The shout from the entrance meant one thing: Jesper was here.

“Well, go take his breath away,” Genya said.

The first thing Wylan noticed were the wings. Jesper had made himself a pair of wings out of sturdy paper, and had stripes of pink, yellow, and blue growing from his shoulders. Other than that, he wore his usual threadbare jeans and a generously tight t-shirt (Wylan did not in any way object), but most noteworthy was the sword at his hip.

Wylan grinned. “Guardian angel?”

“All yours, gorgeous.”

Wylan, under his demon horns and dramatic eye makeup, blushed.

“Jesper, are you warm enough?” Genya asked.

“Not entirely,” Jesper acknowledged, “but we’ll be inside all night.”

“Oh—this is Inej,” Wylan said as she stepped in from the kitchen. “She works with David. Inej, this is Jesper, my boyfriend.”

Jesper raised an eyebrow, because he was very clear on what Wylan was doing. _Hey new person, I’m gay_. Good for him. Even if Jesper was standing here with giant pansexual flag wings.

“Hi, Inej,” he said. “Are you coming to the party with us?”

“Remember,” Genya said, “home by midnight.”

Wylan nodded.

“Jesper?”

“He’ll be home by midnight. I promise.”

It had taken weeks of negotiation for Genya to agree to let Jesper take Wylan to the party. She had no objection to Wylan going to the party, nor to Jesper and Wylan being together at the party, but she preferred if she or David took Wylan there and picked him up. That way they could guarantee he was home on time. There wasn’t even a good reason for it to feel so important, but it did: Wylan wanted to go to the party with Jesper.

The three of them piled into Jesper’s truck, Wylan squished between Jesper and Inej.

“Why do you have such a strict curfew?” Inej wondered.

“I’m a foster kid. I’m not supposed to be out overnight, and we’re looked at especially closely because—well, we just are.”

Inej nodded.

Jesper knew more of the reason, but if Wylan didn’t want Inej to know he was one of _those_ Van Ecks, Jesper wouldn’t be the one to tell. There were other reasons Inej might assume—maybe they were looked at closely because David and Genya were Jewish or because he was autistic, or any number of ridiculous reasons.

“How long have you lived with Genya and David?”

“Since June. They’re really great people.”

“Not as great as I am,” added Jesper.

“Well,” Wylan reasoned, “no one’s as great as you are.” Then, because they were at a stop sign, he stretched up to kiss Jesper’s cheek, bumping his horns on the top of the car.

When they reached Zoya’s, they were welcomed by Nina Zenik in a costume. Jesper realized for the first time that it was entirely possible Nina hadn’t so much wanted a party as an excuse to wear that. Her little white dress showed off her best assets, while the black boots with a dozen buckles each and light-up devil’s-horn headband made sure no one mistook her for an actual angel or anything. Even if she did have a pair of tiny white wings.

“You’re here!” she cried. “Finally! Let’s play Scattergories.”

So they did just that. Even Kaz joined in, though his costume wasn’t more than his usual dark clothing and an especially somber expression.


	5. Post-Apocalypse AU: Wait for the Signal [The Old Guard]

  
There was a lot Nile had gotten used to since the first time she died. There was a lot she was still working on. Their current accommodations fell into the latter category: who slept easily in an old asylum? This was a place where people were incarcerated and tortured for the most trivial differences. Even the name seemed designed to send chills up her spine: lunatic asylum. She wouldn’t have slept easy even if this hadn’t been one of the most haunted places in the United States.

Andy’s response had been dry and matter-of-fact as always: “It’s not really haunted.”

Nile didn’t argue with her, but she was visibly uncomfortable later, even after Andy had gone. Said she had something to take care of—which was her default move these days.

Maybe the asylum wasn’t haunted. It was still eerie. It was centuries old, and the immortals clustered around an incongruous and wobbly table in what had briefly been a cafe, when this place served as a tourist attraction. The then-proprietors did nothing to fight time’s little impacts. The peeling whitewash and windows half-blocked by vines contributed to the aesthetic.

“There are no ghosts. Really,” Nicky said.

“There’s a cemetery,” Nile pointed out. 

The mission was complete, so they had spent the better part of three hours sharing food, drinks, and war stories. Nicky only spoke up to reassure her after the third time Nile started at nothing. He and Joe had shared a look first. She didn’t even try to interpret their looks; nearly a millennium of moments they had shared, it didn’t matter how many official languages they spoke, they had their own language of Joe&Nicky that no one else could fathom.

Sometimes it was even more beautiful than Copley’s research.

“This place operated for 143 years, more than 300 people died here, and thousands more were lobotomized and electrocuted.”

“How do you know that?” Joe asked.

Nile opened her mouth. Closed it.

She knew all that because when her brother was twelve, he went through a major grotesque phase. He liked all the gory bits of history—of anything, really. 

“I just know.”

They shared another look.

“What?” Nile asked.

“You sounded like her.”

It wasn’t an inherently bad thing. There was a lot of good in Andy, and a lot of strength. But there were also traits Nile didn’t want to pick up.

She settled for taking a long drink and soon enough they were laughing again. Joe and Nicky were recounting something that happened in Lisbon in 1384—something that, as far as Nile could tell, included a post-job celebration with copious amounts of alcohol, nudity, and the Atlantic Ocean.

It was late when Nile wandered away from the others. The downside to all of these old abandoned buildings—sure, they made great hideouts. They also relied on pit latrines. Or trees.

Nile was zipping up when she heard footsteps. In a heartbeat she had her weapon in her hands, pointed toward the sound. She couldn’t see much. The half-moon lit the world dimly, halfway visible in the light. Past the tree line, that visibility dropped like a hot stone.

“Who’s there?” Nile asked, scanning as best she could. She took a step toward the sound. A note of irrational superstition kicked inside her—toward the graveyard. “You might as well come out!”

She took another step. Another.

A figure lurched toward her.

“Stop right there.”

The figure did not. It took an unsteady step forward and lunged at Nile, not quite tackling her, but dropping its weight on her and knocking her down. Nile fought the figure off. It didn’t respond the way it should have. She heard bones crack and her assailant didn’t even flinch. 

When Nile got the figure down, she saw why. It wasn’t so much a person as a… 

“No way.”

It was a corpse, snapping its teeth at Nile with its nose rotted off! The… corpse… didn’t stop, and finally Nile had no choice but to put a bullet in its brain.

Joe and Nicky met her halfway down the hall. They had heard the gunshot.

“I’m fine,” Nile said, before they had to ask. What she needed to say next stuck in her throat, because how the hell could it be true? But she had to ask. “Are zombies real?”

“We’ve never—” Joe began.

Two figures stumbled through the door. Nile didn’t see them, but she saw her friends’ reactions. She spun, weapon raised and ready. 

It started with two. Before long, Nile lost count of how many there were. She wasn’t comfortable with a bladed weapon the way Joe and Nicky were. With a second-long look of a conversation, the two reached an agreement. Going into a fight beside two millennium-old warriors bearing swords was strangely familiar by now.

Their enemies came in various stages of decomposition. They came in all ages. There were more women but some men as well, even children. They were all dirty and mostly barefoot. More than anything, they were so numerous.

Nile didn’t know how long this went on. She used up her ammunition and Nicky tossed her another weapon without a word. She was learning to use a sword, but it wasn’t comfortable or natural for her. Nile couldn’t—yet—move the way Andy, Joe, or Nicky could with a labrys, scimitar, or sword. Not for the first time, she resolved all over again to learn. Immediately.

When the three of them stood amid a pile of re-corpses, they looked around at each other. Each gave a nod: I’m fine. 

“Do you know,” Joe said, “maybe there are zombies.”

They all reached the conclusion and said it at once: “Andy.”

* * *

It shouldn’t have been possible. 

As they traveled—south-west, Joe and Nicky thought it was likeliest they would find Andy that way—they talked and they learned.

Yes, zombies only went down with head-shots.

(”They’re not zombies,” according to Nicky. “They’re clearly zombies,” according to Joe.)

Yes, a bite turned a human into one of them.

Yes, anyone who died became one of them.

They helped where they could. Once it was the high school where what remained of the town had holed up. Another time, there was no one to save.

“She’s going to be fine,” Joe said, answering the question no one asked and the thought they all had. “They wouldn’t worry about deploying the National Guard if they knew she was out there.”

Communication was spotty at best after just a few days. There had been rumors—but they were only rumors. Maybe the military would be deployed.

They found her the next day. Andy was unmistakable: who else would have been on the roof of a two-story hospital waging an all-out slaughter with a labrys? Nile still wanted to run, to help a peer. She knew what Andy could do, but everything in her still said that when your friend is in a fight, you should be next to her.

 _Wait for the signal._ This wasn’t the time to wait for a signal! 

Finally, Andy stopped and leaned over the side of the roof. She waved to them.

Nile had never hated someone she loved the same way she felt toward Andy. 

“Sometimes, I just want to…”

Nicky just laughed, empathetic but what could he say?

“There’s no point,” Joe said. “Trust me.”

“He tried,” Nicky added.

Because, well, it might actually be impossible to know Andy without wanting to punch her sometimes. That didn’t stop any of them hugging her when she got down to the ground.

“We were worried about you!” Joe told her.

“I was worried about you!”

Nile didn’t know how much she had needed to feel that Andy was okay until she had her arms around the infinitely-older woman. When they pulled away, Andy held onto Nile’s shoulder just a moment longer. 

“Are you okay?”

Nile nodded. “Fine.” She couldn’t quite process that _Andy_ was asking if _Nile_ was okay. 

“You could die,” Nicky said.

“You can’t,” Andy replied.

Nile needed a moment to realize what Andy meant. From the quiet between them, Joe and Nicky hadn’t thought about it, either. They couldn’t die, but could they be infected?

What if they could?

What could be done against an immortal zombie?


	6. Hospital AU: Go Fish [SoC]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a trans character; while it was sensitivity read, I may have written something in the wrong way or misrepresented, and if that's the case, please tell me. It's never my intention to cause offense.
> 
> TW: misgendering (some out of ignorance, some less so), allusions to suicide attempts

This place was too cold. Jesper lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, with the covers pulled up to his shoulders. The crocheted blanket didn’t really keep him warm. As he tried not to die of boredom, he slid his fingers into the gaps and out, wriggled them all the way through and— **  
**

Crap.

He looked at the blanket. How had his knuckles made it through the weave only to get stuck?! Jesper tugged at it, but ultimately needed his other hand. His stitches hurt when he sat up.

It wasn’t like he had nothing to do, either. His homework was right there. A guy couldn’t even have appendicitis these days without a little APUSH reading to go along with it.

He poked at the stitches and resolved not to do it again.

The hospital was a boring place. Presumably the surgery itself had been a little more exciting. Jesper barely remembered it. How was that for a bit of luck?! One of the most exciting things to happen in a guy’s life and he was all delirious! So now he sat on a semi-comfortable bed in a too-cold room. He had a window, at least, not that he could see much through it. A curtain was drawn across the room long-ways, like he might get jealous of that empty bed and… and race them or something. Yeah, like rig up an oxygen tank and have a two-bed hospital race, that would be cool!

He wasn’t going to, but it was fun to imagine.

Jesper knew he should do some reading. Exams and all that. But he knew it was pointless, to. His mind would wander after a few minutes. And if he was being honest, he didn't actually want to study. Didn't he deserve a break? A proper sick day?

So he leaned back and decided if he was stuck on his own, he might as well entertain himself. He sang to himself. He started with “Walk the Line”—picked up courtesy of his father, who hadn’t even been born when it was first released, but played Johnny Cash all Jesper’s childhood.

It was a good song, anyway.

Jesper waited a moment after the end of it, pausing for an imaginary audience.

“Thank you so much, it’s an honor to be here tonight. Now, for my next hit, this is ‘Party in the CIA’ by Weird Al Yankovic…”

And obviously he had to do a few moves, it was a song that just begged for finger-guns, imaginary sunglasses, and pretend tie-straightening. He limited the moves after an objection from his stitches, but that in no way limited his good time. Except, Jesper had only got to a line that always got him—“We got snazzy suits and ties/and a better dental plan than the FBI’s!”—when he heard… laughter.

Jesper stopped the song.

“What the—I thought I was alone!”

There was no answer.

“Well, now I know I’m not, so you might as well speak up.” And ideally his roommate could confirm his age. Jesper was seventeen, so they had stuck him in the pediatric ward. He hoped he wasn’t bunking with a kid—that would be… weird. Plus he’d have to work on not cussing.

“H-hey,” said the other guy. He sounded a little younger, but Jesper couldn't be sure.

“Hey! So you like Weird Al?”

“Who?”

“Weird Al Yankovic. Never mind, never mind. How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Cool, I’m seventeen. So what’re you in for? I had my appendix out.” And his roommate was close to his age, so he had someone to hang out with! Jesper glanced at his APUSH book, then back to his fingers tugging at the blanket.

“Did it hurt?”

Jesper hadn’t initially said it was appendicitis. He hadn’t known. He thought he just felt miserable, but he didn’t want his parents to worry. By the time he couldn’t pretend anymore that he was okay…

“Nah. They knocked me out, anyway. I’m just bored.”

“Me, too.”

“Want to play Twenty Questions?”

“Sure. You pick something first.”

“Got it. It’s a person.”

The game continued for a while. It wasn’t Jesper’s favorite game in the world, but it kept him occupied—that and toying with the blanket—even as they got into an argument over whether or not “a field” counted as a thing. It totally did, a specific field would have been a place, but this was a kind of place, which was a thing. 

“No, a place is a place, you can’t just decide a place is a thing!”

“Yeah, if it were a specific place, but it’s not a place. It’s a category of places.”

“So a room would be a thing, but this room is a place?”

“Glad we agree.”

“That is ridiculous.”

Jesper laughed. He was about to retort that it wasn’t ridiculous, it was logical, when the door opened. 

“You look cheerful,” Aditi Hilli reported, coming to sit on the edge of his bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. Just cold and my stitches are itchy.”

“Itchy means healing,” she said, smoothing a hand over his hair. 

“There you go, siding with medicine again!”

He knew she only had a minute. She wasn’t treating him, that would be a severe conflict of interest, but she had found time in her shift to stop in. So Jesper didn’t waste time groaning. He didn’t even put up a fuss when she hugged him.

“Are you dizzy or in any pain?”

“No.” It was a medical question, but he understood that it was a mom question, too. It was a how are you question with more detail.

“Have you—”

“Ma, I love you, but I am not talking to you about pooping.”

“Honestly, Jesper, I changed your diapers.”

“Ma!”

“After an appendectomy—”

Jesper grabbed the pillow and wrapped it around his head like massive earmuffs as he informed her, loudly, “Not listening! Not listening!”

She shook her head at him and checked his chart. Okay, fine, she knew she could get that information. He still didn’t want to have the actual conversation. Seriously, was nothing sacred?

She set down the chart. He set down the pillow.

“I’m glad you’re okay, little rabbit.”

Jesper slumped just slightly. It was easy to shrug off being sick, but he knew his parents had genuinely been scared. He should have told them earlier, but that was easy to say in hindsight. But he was already enough of a disaster. Telling them meant giving them one more thing to worry about, and he had expected to hurt for a while and recover on his own.

“I love you, too. I’m fine, I promise, just… bored. Do you have my tangle? Or my zippers?”

“No, but your father’s coming to see you after work. He wanted to stay but I knew you wouldn’t like him hovering.”

“Thanks for taking care of us.”

“I’ll ask him to look for your things. Do you know where they are?”

“Um… y’know… I think I have a couple bracelets in the bathroom, and my tangle might be in the back pocket of my jeans. I’m sick,” he reminded her, playing up his ‘sick face’ to avoid hearing about how he needed to clean his room. He knew that. He didn’t mean to leave it a mess, he just kind of… forgot. The mess was organic. 

“I’ll ask him.”

She kissed his forehead and left. There wasn’t a lot of down time in hospitals. Well… there was. But it all went to patients.

After a moment, Jesper said, “So… you heard that.”

Great. His anonymous roommate had heard his ma talking about his messy room. Among more embarrassing things.

“She seems nice,” his roommate said. “My mom’s a nurse, so I’m used to… you know, being asked about symptoms.”

“Great, I can’t wait to hear about whether or not you’ve pooped.”

“I’m not here for poop-related reasons.”

Jesper laughed.

* * *

It was much later when his roommate’s mom visited. Jesper’s da had been in and gone. Like Aditi, Colm was glad to see his son recovering. He had a more frank, less clinical way of saying how worried he had been. He brought Jesper a hat and socks for the cold, and two zipper bracelets and his infinity cube, so the nothingness of the room stopped grating on his nerves quite so badly. The feeling was difficult to describe—it was like having this emptiness building up against him so he couldn’t find a space to exist.

Jesper would always find something to fidget with, but knowing he had dedicated fidgets at hand softened an edge.

The roommates couldn’t see each other, but they could both see the door, so Jesper saw the woman with curly red hair come into the room and head over to his roommate.

“Hey, sweetpea.”

“Hi, Mom.”

That was… not his roommate’s voice. This voice was softer, higher, and a little nervous. Jesper couldn't help having his interest piqued by the shift. Sure, Jesper changed his tone with his parents, but he still sounded like Jesper. His roommate sounded like a stranger.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay. I… ———… we love you.”

Well, damn, his roommate was a girl! Jesper thought back over their conversation, searching for anything he might’ve said that he maybe shouldn’t’ve.

“I love you, too, Mom.” She sounded like it hurt to say.

“If this is about what your father said the other day, he… he needs you to be patient with him.”

“Okay.”

“He’s trying.”

Jesper was, by now, sitting very, very still. He knew this conversation wasn’t meant for him to hear, but in a small room, he couldn’t exactly not hear what was said a few feet away. So he tried to stay quiet and not make them feel self-conscious—and, if he was being completely honest, he was curious.

“Why do you excuse everything he does?”

“He’s not perfect, but he loves us. You’re still his little girl.”

“Okay.”

“———.”

“Could you just leave me alone, please?” said his roommate, in what Jesper could only describe as an amazingly rude way.

“———.”

“If you had to lose me or leave him, who would you pick?”

“That’s not fair.”

Jesper’s roommate said nothing.

“I’ll come back later. I hope you feel better then.”

Jesper settled back on the pillow and closed his eyes, doing his very best impression of sleeping. The door opened and closed, and they were alone. He stayed quiet for a moment, absently turning his infinity cube over and over in his hand. He had wanted to go back to talking with his roommate… but now he didn’t know what to say. That had been a heavy conversation to just ignore.

Then he realized his roommate was crying.

“Hey,” Jesper said. “———?”

She didn’t answer. 

“You okay?”

“That’s not my name.”

“Oh.” Jesper looked at the cube, clicking idly in his hand. He had no idea what was going on. “My name’s Jesper, but I guess you knew that since my ma visited. You want to play twenty questions? I got a good one. C’mon, you’ll never guess!” he wheedled.

After a moment, his roommate sniffled, then asked, “Person, place, or thing?”

* * *

“I feel wronged.”

Jesper snorted. Yeah, that was about the most accurate summary of their current situation. He still hadn’t seen his roommate, but they called to each other across the curtains. The entire situation looked brighter in the morning light. Jesper felt better. His body was rapidly putting the surgery behind him.

Even sunshine couldn’t fix the picture in front of him, though. Last night, his da had brought him food from home. No such luck today: Jesper sat up in bed, mournfully regarding the hospital’s breakfast tray.

He lifted the toast and gave it a shake. It wriggled.

“I think they steamed the toast,” he said.

His roommate laughed. “Think they toasted it first?”

Jesper set the toast aside. “You eating yours?”

“I can’t.”

“Me too. The apple looks okay.”

“Looks are deceiving things.”

Jesper bit into his apple and shuddered. He carefully removed the piece of fruit from his mouth, trying to pretend he hadn’t felt that mealy hellflesh. 

“Cereal and milk it is!” he announced. “I got Corn Flakes. You?”

“Rice Krispies.”

“This is blatant favoritism and I won’t stand for it!”

“You just had surgery, you’re not supposed to be standing at all.”

“Wow,” Jesper said, not at all appreciating that. It was true, but… wow.

He poured the mini box of corn flakes and carton of milk into his bowl. The breakfast tray was a depressing sight. There was steamed toast and an apple that was an insult to other apples. Still, at least he had juice to look forward to and the jello had been pretty good.

Halfway through his Corn Flakes, he asked, “So what are you in for, anyway? I had my appendix out.”

“I was sleepwalking—it’s dumb. I thought I was eating Skittles.”

“What were you really eating? Steamed toast?”

“Aspirin.”

“Oh, shit.”

“I was sleepwalking.”

“Yeah, totally,” Jesper said, trying to sound like he believed it. 

A while later, once the salvagable parts of breakfast had been endured, Jesper’s roommate appeared around the curtain, leaning on an IV stand. She was small, the sort of girl who looked like she would never be more than 5'. She had freckles and a curly red-gold ponytail, and if Jesper was being completely honest, she was cute.

“Want to play cards?” she asked.

“Um—I…”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s cool.”

“I have a gambling problem,” Jesper blurted out. “I can’t… it’s really… I have a problem. But if we keep it chill?”

“Sure. How about Go Fish? No one gambles over Go Fish.”

Gamblers would gamble over anything, but she sounded so sweet and optimistic, he didn’t want to ruin her bright outlook.

“Sounds good.”

She sat on the end of his bed and dealt. 

They made it a few rounds without chatting much, then she said, “I’ll tell you my name, but you can’t tell anybody.”

Jesper wanted to ask why she was trusting him, but instead said, “I won’t.”

She leaned nearer and whispered it. Jesper had suspected something like this. He appreciated having it confirmed. Now that he knew, he rearranged his thoughts about his roommate to use the correct pronouns.

“Wylan’s a cool name.”

Jesper’s roommate smiled at his cards, a smile that was determinedly interrupted with a scowl.

“Not as cool as Jesper,” he continued, “but still pretty cool. You want to play again?”

By that afternoon, they had both seen their mothers again. Wylan’s mom seemed to really love him, Jesper thought, even if she did use his deadname. The visit still left Wylan withdrawn, but Jesper talked his new friend into another round of Go Fish. It wasn’t such a fun game. It was about the company, though said company remained gloomy. He had a scowl like thunder.

“Here, I have an idea.” Jesper pulled off his beanie. “Do you want to…?”

Wylan took the hat, pulled it on, and tucked his hair up under it.

“I hate feeling it,” he said. “That’s probably stupid, but I hate it! It’s stupid. You have long hair and you don’t look like a girl!”

“You don’t look like a girl, either. And you don’t sound like a girl, I thought you were a guy until I heard your mom say your name. Which now I know isn’t your name,” Jesper added. 

The stormclouds began to disappear. 

“When I was a kid, I used to imitate cartoons.”

“Oh yeah? Can you still do it?”

Jesper didn’t have to hear the answer—which was just as well, because Wylan didn’t give him one.

“Do one for me! C’mon, just one.”

Wylan shifted, keeping his eyes on their forgotten game of Go Fish. Then he said, “Meep meep!”

“Pfft, Road Runner doesn’t count.”

“Road Runner’s a cartoon!”  
  
“You said one word and it was onomatopoeia!”

“Okay, yeah, but… okay. Okay.” Wylan took a deep breath, settled his shoulders, and stared at the sheets with a deepening blush as he said, “Duck season! Wabbit season! Duck season! Wabbit season! Wabbit season! I say it’s duck season, and I say, fire!”

Jesper laughed. “That’s really good!” he said. He wasn’t laughing at Wylan, but because the impression was so good, almost like different people when Bugs and Daffy spoke. Besides, the cartoon was a classic. Wylan must’ve known, because he smiled.


	7. Superpowers AU: Medicine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of lines lifted directly from the text are marked with **

“What do you mean he’s missing?” Kaz demanded.

This was why Inej went to him before she fetched Raske. It was a good turn—Raske was better. Whatever Kaz was building to with Wylan, Inej knew Raske did better work and was more of a benefit to the Dregs.

But she told Kaz first that Wylan was absent.

“I’ll get Raske.”

“I don’t want Raske.”

Yes, he did. He was just being difficult because things were not going his way.

“Wylan probably got tired of the rough life and went home. Raske is better, Kaz.”

“Wylan is mine.”

Of course. Wylan was passable at demo, but Kaz hadn’t been using him for his skills at demo—not really. Kaz made use of Jan Van Eck’s son. And someone had interfered with his plans.

“Get me Raske,” Kaz decided, “then look into Wylan’s little vacation. He owes me.”

“He can’t owe you,” Inej said. “Not for something he doesn’t know about.”

She knew why Kaz put the mercher’s son under Dregs protection and she knew he had his reasons, but if Wylan had truly gone back to his father’s house, Kaz had no right to call in a debt. Inej wouldn’t stand for that. A person couldn’t be beholden to a contract they never had a chance to read, let alone sign.

“Somebody owes me.”

He wasn’t going to budge, not when he was already being ridiculous, so Inej didn’t fight. She just went to find Raske.

* * *

When the bag was yanked off his head, Wylan blinked at the sudden light, slowly taking in the mint green wallpaper and gold-leafed accents. There was a fireplace. Turning his head, he spotted windows with the curtains drawn shut and two severe-looking men. He would have looked farther, but he was tied to a chair.

He was in a hotel—a good one.

He looked down at the ropes binding his wrists to the chair. He tugged, but they held fast. Tried to chew at the gag in his mouth.

“Shh.”

That sound was enough to silence the frantic thumping of Wylan’s heart, enough to still everything inside him. For a moment nothing felt real. His worst fear had been made flesh and he had spent so long fearing it, he didn’t quite believe it was happening.

Then a light touch on his shoulder shattered the illusion. This was real—this was happening. Jan Van Eck trailed his fingertips down Wylan’s arm as Wylan squirmed against the restraints.

“Now, Wylan. There’s no reason to fret.” Jan reached Wylan’s wrist and pried open his hand and touched the calluses Wylan had earned at the tannery. “You’ve impressed me. You’ve made something of yourself. Not much, but something.”

Wylan looked up at his father, hoping Jan saw the fury in his eyes. He was surprised by how badly it hurt to gaze at the man who paid to end his life. Wylan tried to hold onto the anger toward his father—toward the architect of his flophouse room, his dizziness at the end of a day’s work, the circumstances that led him to build bombs for a gang. He held on as long as he could.

“Don’t you want to come home?” Jan asked, with the gentleness Wylan remembered from his childhood. To his surprise, it hurt. It stirred up memories of the father who used to love him and the pain of the loss, the desperation to maintain that kind tone.

Wylan tried to answer, forgetting briefly about the gag.

“Ah, yes.”

Jan leaned nearer to untie the gag. He had the same scent Wylan remembered, the lingering cologne and shaving soap of the man who read him stories when he was small. Wylan squeezed his eyes shut against the tears.

He wanted to get out of this room.

He wanted to show his papa that he could be a good son.

Jan removed the gag. One of his goons handed him a glass of water, which he held to Wylan’s lips and helped him drink.

“You’ll take this medicine now,” Jan said. He tilted Wylan’s head back, gripping him by the chin.

Wylan wrenched away.

“Send me back,” he gasped out. He didn’t know what his father wanted with him. That was the difference. He knew exactly what Kaz Brekker wanted of him.

“You’re confused,” Jan told him with a frown. “I’m your father, Wylan. Who else in your life loves you?”

And there wasn’t a single thing to say, because Wylan knew it was true. Just as Jan said, there was no one else who loved him.

“Have some more water,” Jan said. He helped him take another sip. “Now take your medicine. It’ll make you better.”

He felt fine.

But this was his father. Who loved him. When the medicine was poured into his mouth, Wylan chewed. It was mildly sweet, slightly bitter.

Then the fire swept through him. And he forgot to care.

* * *

“He won’t be any use to you,” Inej summarized the situation. She knew Kaz took grave exception to anyone interfering with his work, with his investments, but after what Jan Van Eck did to his son, Wylan was no good for Kaz’s purposes.

“I put money into that kid.”

“Van Eck has him in one of his hotels. He’s barely conscious.”

Inej had dropped from the vent to try to wake him. She couldn’t. Wylan was clammy, only responded enough to mumble incoherently. He didn’t seem to know she was present at all.

Kaz nodded. “We’ll keep an eye on the situation,” he decided. “If he lives, he may still be useful.”

* * *

Wylan didn’t know how long he had been asleep. His muscles were stiff and his mouth felt like damp cotton, but more than anything, he didn’t know what day it was, what time, when… or where… he was.

He moved a hand to rub his eyes.

The sheets _screamed_ against his skin. Wylan flinched away from the pain, but that only intensified the feeling and he scrambled away from it until he managed to dump himself out of the bed, falling hard against the floor. It felt so much better, so much quieter against him. But now the sounds flooded him, so many voices gnashing at his ears, and when he opened his eyes every whorl in the floorboards and thread in the sheets roared at him.

When they found him, Wylan was crouched in the middle of the room with his eyes squeezed shut and his hands over his ears, rocking gently because it helped soothe the prickling feeling rushing over his skin.

“He’s awake, sir!” someone called, the sound like a blow against Wylan’s skull. Hands closed over his upper arms and hauled Wylan to his feet. He went along with it until he realized they were taking him back to his bed.

Wylan couldn’t get back on those sheets.

He wouldn’t.

All he could think of was how they had hurt against his skin; he twisted desperately, but he was weak, recovering from sickness.

_Don’t hurt me, please, it already hurts so much…_

He didn’t know what had happened to him, only that suddenly the world was louder, brighter, bigger. Harsher. Like everything was coated in ground glass that scratched at his skin, his eyes, his ears, to say nothing of what he smelled. He could smell not only this man’s last meal on his breath—he had eaten sausage and had a lager with it—but the hint of his woman’s perfume.

“You’re only going back to bed,” said the man, almost gently.

Wylan whimpered, ashamed of the tears spilling down his cheeks.

The man deposited him back on the bed. Wylan hadn’t thought, before, of his clothing. Now he realized he wore a nightshirt. His legs were bare and hurt against the rough sheets, and he felt each hair snagging and that didn’t exactly hurt but he couldn’t think. Some of it hurt. Some if was just noise. He couldn’t think with a thousand and one distractions, and—

“Wylan.”

—and that didn’t help.

“Wylan, look at me.”

He didn’t want to look. He wanted everything to be quiet again. A hand gripped his chin, turning his face, and Wylan’s eyes opened. How was it he had seen his father many times before, yet now looked upon something entirely different? This was not a man but a collection of pores and follicles.

Somewhere nearby, a couple were engaging in carnal acts. He heard with disturbing clarity the splash of urine and the horrific thought entered his mind that perhaps he could smell it—Wylan clapped a hand over his nose and mouth. He didn’t want to find out.

“Fascinating,” murmured Jan Van Eck. “How are you feeling, Wylan?”

The sheets. Please, please, Ghezen take away these sheets! Wylan heard someone on the street demanding someone else’s money.

How was he feeling?

“Everything.”

* * *

**“What does it do to sorry sobs like you and me?”

Van Eck seemed to bristle slightly at being lumped in with Kaz, but he said, “It’s lethal** in all but the lowest doses. Even those who survive the dosages are… damaged.”

“I take it you’ve tested that too?” Kaz asked.

Van Eck nodded. “But the effects on Grisha are far more remarkable…”

* * *

Perhaps an ordinary mind might have borne it.

That was what Wylan’s father said shortly before sending him to the lake house. Not to Wylan, but that didn’t matter, not anymore. Wylan heard everything.

He found the countryside easier to bear. There were fewer noises here; that helped. There were fewer living things. Wylan would hear squirrels’ claws sinking into the trees and the beat of birds’ wings, but the sounds connected out here. The city was full of people each making their own independent decisions, but everything interacted in nature. The sounds were parts of the same logical whole.

He thought more clearly out here. His father seemed, if anything, more disgusted with him now, but he had sent Wylan to the lake house with sheets and clothes that didn’t hurt to touch, soap he could wash with so he wouldn’t hate the smell of his skin—the hotel had a citrus soap. Wylan had never liked the smell of citrus, but having it constantly, aggressively clinging had made him claw at his own skin. Jan had sent Wylan with guards, as much to keep him there as to keep danger out.

They were not doing a very good job tonight.

Wylan sat in the kitchen with his satchel beside him and a slice of bread half-eaten in front of him. He had grown rather more selective about his food of late, ever since biting in a piece of meat and feeling the howling incongruity of the gristle. It had made him gag. Luckily bread with butter and chocolate sprinkles tasted consistent and good.

“There’s no point in creeping,” he announced. He took a sip of his tea, then said, “I know you’re there. Hello, Kaz. Hello, Jesper and Nina. Who’s that with you?”

The responding lack of speech was awkward. Wylan bit into his bread. Chocolate sprinkles! Had the Kerch created anything more wonderful? He wished his teeth were not so loud as they chewed, but still enjoyed the taste.

“My name is Matthias,” he said, finally. They were in the corridor, attempting to sneak. It was no good. He had heard them whispering outside. He heard every word.

“Hello, Matthias.”

* * *

Jesper hadn’t known what to make of Wylan when they first retrieved him. When he met the boy, Wylan had been… useless. The pampered son of a mercher house playing at being a Barrel boy. Cute, but useless—knickknack-level humanity.

Now…

Wylan had explained the situation to them. His father gave him ‘something called parem’. How nice for him not to even need to know. Nina had asked dozens of questions, but Wylan mostly didn’t know the answers, and Jesper had finally said, “Why don’t you save us the time by telling us what you _do_ know?”

The joke came out meaner than he meant it to, and Jesper had shown himself out of the tomb they called home.

It just wasn’t fair. When Jesper revealed his powers, he had been met with a glower from Matthias and looks from Nina that promised more questions in the future—questions he didn’t want to be asked and really didn’t want to answer. It wasn’t fair that he had been this way all his life, that he had spent the hours fearing, it wasn’t fair that he had to live like this and Wylan got to choose. Just like he chose the Barrel.

Some people had all the luck.


	8. Day 11: Ranch AU: Repulsive Idyllic Splendor [SoC]

Kaz Brekker sat in the passenger seat with his jaw clenched and his hands tight on his walking stick. He had no desire to be here. In fact, he detested it. He detested the gentle sunshine dappling the foliage. He detested the cloud of dust blown up to coat the car. If he was fully honest, he detested Inej, just a little bit.

He missed the city. There wasn’t even a real parking lot. Kaz anticipated rocks to stumble over on the damn packed-earth space between the car and the farmhouse.

Inej parked. She exhaled long and slow, then looked to Kaz. 

“Are you ready for this?”

“I’d rather go back to Kabul.”

“Okay,” Inej said. She stepped out of the car and grabbed their bag from the trunk.

The setting was repulsively bucolic. They passed fields where horses grazed. Something buzzed nearby, close enough to be music, far enough that he didn’t need to slap at it. Much to his disgruntlement, there wasn’t a single stone to impede him. He didn’t want to be impeded, but he preferred being inconvenienced to feeling his needs were anticipated—that he hadn’t been inconvenienced but accommodated.

They approached the farmhouse—further repulsive idyllic splendor, two stories, a gabled roof. There was a mural on the side. A _mural_.

Kaz had only agreed to this because of Inej. He had only agreed to this because he knew if he didn’t, he would lose her. He didn’t expect it would help, only that she would see his willingness to try. He was willing to try.

He preferred not to consider how Inej would react when she realized how useless this all was. When she realized he was, in fact, broken. 

* * *

Jesper grew up with horses and, in high school, had played that up to the fullest. The whole cowboy persona did wonders for his love life. He romanticized the heck out of it, talked about specific horses, told anecdotes—everything from times he had been thrown to waking up early for chores he didn’t mind in the least.

He truly loved horses. Waking up early for chores he liked less, but hey, it sounded impressive!

He left out stuff like this: scrubbing out buckets and troughs. It wasn’t romantic. At least, it hadn’t seemed romantic.

“What do you think of the new couple?” Wylan asked.

“Mm. He’s not bad looking—doesn’t hold a candle to you, though.”

“Jesper,” Wylan objected, blushing.

One of these days, he would realize Jesper wasn’t teasing. He was flirting. 

Wylan had shown up unexpectedly. It was Jesper who found him hiding in the barn, but it was Aditi who convinced Colm to keep the boy on. 

“What if it were Jes?” she had asked.

They weren’t in the room at the time. Jesper and Wylan had been sitting on the back steps with popsicles. (Until they had agreed to keep him, Wylan was a guest, so Jesper had very politely and hospitably offered Wylan a snack. And obviously Jesper joined him. Companionship and all that. Plus they had double pops, which were best shared.)

Jesper and Wylan sat, enjoying their popsicles, while Jesper’s parents debated.

“We don’t know who this boy is,” Colm reasoned.

“He’s a child,” Aditi said.

“I am not,” Wylan grumbled.

Jesper nudged him. “Hush,” he said, not wanting their position given away.

If he had one complaint about his childhood, Jesper would say it had been lonely. He was used to seeing his ma’s clients. Some would visit, some would stay for a while if they were more intensive. They lived outside town, though. He sometimes wished he had a neighbor to play with. Or a brother or sister.

Wylan arrived shortly after Jesper’s high school graduation. He was learning his way around the horses, though he didn’t have a knack for it. He was useless helping Colm with the business side of things. All he was really suited for was menial work—but he was eager and thought Jesper put the stars in the sky, so Jesper liked having him around.

As for the new couple…

“It’s always harder when someone doesn’t want to heal,” Jesper quoted his ma. “What do you think?”

Wylan shrugged. “I don’t… um… I don’t think…” He shrugged again, rinsed out the bucket he had been cleaning and grabbed another. “There’s something about him I don’t like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves* hi, everyone. If you've read this far, thank you! I considered including this note on the first chapter but figured it's likelier to be spotted here at the end. 
> 
> I've had fun writing these and a lot of them really caught my interest. If you'd be interested in seeing more of any of them, please let me know! I'd definitely be up for exploring some further.


	9. Role Reversal AU: The New Guy [Six of Crows]

“I need you to find this guy. He’s new to the Barrel, but he’s making a name for himself taking jobs with the other gangs.”

“I don’t do hits, Kaz.”

Brekker rasped, “My little bleeding heart.”

He didn’t know why he enjoyed needling the other boy so much. He got enough idealism from his spider. It was one thing with her; Inej understood this world, their world. One earned the right to criticize a world by mastering it. Otherwise you were a petty ant cursing the flood.

And his errand boy? Maybe he resented it from a kid. Maybe he resented it because he understood Inej better—she was more like him.

“But I’m not sending you to kill him. I’m sending you to recruit him.” Kaz gave a number.

“For one night’s work?”

“It’s an incentive. And tell Anika I need a word with her.”

“Kaz, promise me you won’t hurt this boy.”

“Sure,” Kaz agreed. He saw the surprise, then the wariness in Wylan’s eyes. Good. Maybe he would learn enough to stop hemorrhaging feelings everywhere. “Just tell me why you left your father’s house.”

Wylan’s jaw tightened. “I’ll pass along the message.”

* * *

There were many things Wylan disliked about the Barrel. Before joining the Dregs, he had slept in the filthiest hole of a room, on a mattress like paper. He’d had lice. It stank and people coupled shamelessly in dark and not-so-dark alleyways. Wylan still blushed when he saw couples… in that way.

But the Barrel spoke the language of kruge, loud and proud and brightly lit. Wylan had considered for a long time claiming poverty, saying his parents hadn’t been able to afford schooling—but that was before he learned that Kaz already knew otherwise.

The Barrel spoke a language of images. The House of the Blue Iris and The House of the White Rose adorned their buildings with blue irises and white roses. The Emerald Palace was emerald. No one needed to write “This boy is a Dreg,” on his arm. The crow and cup sufficed.

As Wylan approached a side door of one of the smaller gambling dens—The Lucky Guppy—the door burst open and a burly man tossed a boy into the alley, slamming the door behind him.

Wylan watched as the other boy picked himself up and, as best he could, brushed off his lemon-yellow trousers and green plaid waistcoat.

“Jesper Fahey?” Wylan asked.

The boy he presumed to be Jesper Fahey regarded Wylan. He was a lanky, long-limbed boy with an inexplicable smile. Didn’t he know he had just been thrown into an alley that stank of piss?

“Who’s asking?”

Wylan could imagine those words like a knife in Kaz’s voice, but from probably-Jesper, they felt like sun-soaked velvet.

“I hear you’re quite the gunsman.”

“I know my way around a pistol.”

Why did that make Wylan blush? He swallowed and tugged at himself, trying for a semblance of control as he said, “Kaz Brekker wants to meet with you.”

* * *

Over the next few months, Wylan watched as Jesper climbed higher and higher—or maybe he should have said that Jesper fell lower and lower into the pit of the Barrel. It was hard not to feel a touch of resentment.

It wasn’t just that Jesper was better than Wylan—though he was. He was more useful, better in a fight, more likable. He belonged here.

It wasn’t that Wylan couldn’t take his eyes off of Jesper, either. He could scarcely blame Jesper for that! And… he wasn’t complaining, either. Kaz liked having Jesper around as a gunman and as a friend. Wylan liked having Jesper around because… because he was Jesper! Aggravating, yes, but also sharp and funny and outright beautiful.

It was…

One morning, Wylan sat tinkering with one of his latest bombs. This early, the only people going through the kitchen were on their way to sleep after a long night, so he helped himself to a bit of space where the lighting was good.

“’Morning, Wylan.”

“Good morning, Jesper!”

Oof. Why couldn’t he talk normally?! In Jesper’s presence, Wylan always sounded just a little too eager.

Jesper looked bleary. He wasn’t a morning person at all, and grabbed a piece of bread before making his way toward his room, just taking the time to ruffle Wylan’s hair and say, “See you later, new guy.”


	10. Bodyguard AU: Duty [Six of Crows]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another satellite fic for A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Republican National Convention.

TW for child abuse (non-graphic, all Jan Van Eck)

* * *

Guarding someone could be surprisingly dull. The movies made it look all high-octane thrills, gun fights and car chases. In reality, it was a lot of standing around and looking out for dangers.

And, in Matthias’s case, listening to music. The same song over and over for nearly half an hour now, until even tin-eared Matthias had learned the tune. He found himself surprisingly engaged, listening for the usual off notes.

The music stopped.

It was just another hallway in just another hotel until the door opened.

“Agent Helvar? Is the music bothering you?”

Wylan Van Eck was a very easy charge. Despite his father’s high position in the government, Wylan was rarely in any danger. He did a lot of sitting quietly and staying out of the way.

“Not at all,” Matthias assured him.

Wylan nodded. “Would you… can you help me with something?”

Matthias didn’t really know Wylan. It was his job to know the boy’s habits, but those habits were mostly keeping to himself, drawing, and playing the flute. The wildest thing he did was stargaze. So Matthias had no idea what Wylan needed his help with, but it was quite literally his job.

It wasn’t dereliction of duty when he followed Wylan into the hotel room, but it was a surprise. Matthias would have guessed the ‘help’ in question to require reaching a high shelf or… he didn’t know. Instead Wylan had a standard first aid kit open, a handful of crumpled, blood-smeared band-aids beside it.

“It opened again and I can’t reach to do the bandage right,” Wylan explained, raising his shirt to show a gash at his side, just high enough that he couldn’t quite reach.

Matthias wasn’t a fool. He knew perfectly well that sort of man Jan Van Eck was. Still, he hadn’t seen it before. He had heard it.

Around the gash was a pattern of bruising in various stages of healing. Anything Matthias had to say would be unprofessional. Besides, Wylan was already crimson, looking away.

“In the bathroom,” Matthias decided. “This needs to be washed.”

Wylan nodded. Followed.

This was his job, in its own way, so Matthias sat on the edge of the tub and did his best to mop up the injury. He was more built for destruction—he had been a good soldier. Gentleness came less naturally, but he tried to think of what he would do if it were his dog in this state. He dampened a washcloth and cleaned up the injury as best he could.

“I’m sorry about the mess,” Wylan muttered.

“This isn’t your fault.”

The washcloth was stained with blood. It might have been soaked and cleaned out, but Matthias wasn’t certain it ought to be. Someone else would use that washcloth. Some unsuspecting person would try their face on smears of forgotten blood.

“You don’t understand,” Wylan said in a high, choked voice that was almost a whine, “I tried this time, I… I really…”

Matthias finished bandaging the wound while Wylan cried. His shoulders were shaking and the tremors went down to the gash, seeping dribbles of blood from it until Matthias opened the big bandage from the kit.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

Matthias wanted to stay, just for a while. It would have been unprofessional to do so. He was not supposed to show any reaction to what went on around him. Patching up the boy was fine—was professional. But anything more, trying to patch up his spirit… it wasn’t Matthias’s job. It wasn’t his place. If Wylan said he was fine, then he was fine.

So Matthias squeezed Wylan’s shoulder and left him, safe and broken all by himself.

* * *

Quite a lot had changed for Matthias in the space of a year. He had expected to be in Washington, D.C. at this time. If anyone had asked him last January where he would be in a year, Matthias would have said he would be saying goodbye to his charge of the past two and a half years, preparing to be reassigned, probably somewhere else in the capitol.

He would not have said that he expected to be in a tailor’s kitchen in the middle of Iowa, but on January 20, 2021, that is exactly where Matthias Helvar found himself.

“Thank you for inviting me to your home.”

“I didn’t,” Genya said, hand him a mug of coffee, “Wylan did. I have my misgivings about you.”

That was perhaps more direct than he expected. Unsure what to say, Matthias brought the mug to his lips, but the steam warned him it was too hot to drink yet.

“I wasn’t permitted to interfere,” Matthias said. He knew exactly what she meant. As long as Matthias was responsible for protecting Wylan, he had been part of the institution that enabled his abuser. It was something Matthias himself had grappled with.

“And you did save him, in the end,” she agreed. “Why was that?”

Why?

“I believed he would kill himself.” The coffee was cool enough to drink now. He drank it black, but somehow this was a considerably more bitter brew than he was accustomed to.

“I wonder why. Before the night you decided to save him were the seven hundred days you didn’t. Most abused children don’t have the Secret Service standing by and letting it happen. You as good as told him that he was as worthless as his father claimed.” Changing the subject and tone entirely, she picked up an oven mitt, one with uneven seams and bulging tape at the corner. “He made me this. He sews now. He likes to sew but he’s scared to talk about it around David. My husband is not homophobic and he is not violent, but that’s what Wylan expects from men. I’m telling you this because I want you to understand that if you say anything to tell my son that he is any less of a man because he is an artist or because he is gay or because of his dyslexia, your welcome in this home will be revoked.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Was there anything else to say? He shifted uncomfortably, now very aware that he was less a guest than an intruder. He hadn’t thought of it in those terms before—he had always known what was happening was wrong, but a man could scarcely call the police on the Vice President.

“The Secret Service is not law enforcement in the same sense as police,” he added. It hadn’t been his job to… well, it had been his job to protect Wylan, but… “It wasn’t my duty to prevent—”

“It was your duty as a human being.”

Matthias opened his mouth. Closed it.

Before he could think of what to say, the front door opened and shut.

“Hey, kid!” Genya called.

“Hi!” Wylan bounded in and hugged her.

“Hey. School go okay today?”

He nodded. “It was good. Hi, Matthias.”

“Hi, Wylan.”

He had never seen Wylan look this way. For the two years he had known the boy, Matthias hadn’t seen his face shining, he hadn’t seen that smile or those bright eyes. It was like he had spent two years looking at a greyscale human being and never realized.

“It’s really good to see you.”

Wylan looked right at Matthias and smiled—something else Matthias hadn’t seen before. Genuine happiness.


End file.
